


a commentary on the theory of the blue goddess

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: F/M, pedantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-25
Updated: 2006-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy and Hawkeye paint a wall in her house. Nothing more, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a commentary on the theory of the blue goddess

**i. inspiration**

The open cans of paint remind her of the smell of fire, of burnt feathers, plastic, ash, burnt skin. It reminds her of the past tense, of Ishval, crude and intoxicating.

Roy is there, waiting, his sober uniform traded for some old t-shirt and trousers; he is dipping the brushes in a glass of water, he wears a quiet smile. He has the key to her house, just like she has the key to his, exchanged in comfortable silence, refusing to make a big deal of it. Roy waits for her a bit longer, and while she changes he prepares the mix of water and paint, the slowly dissolving of pure, hard blue into cerulean soothes him in its automatism. He doesn´t have to think now, he just has to let himself go, enjoy the moment, the most fleeting, most lasting afternoon sunlight.

He insisted. He bought the paint and spread the newpapers over the floor, he stands barefooted in the middle of her bared living room. It is her house and he wants something in it; he wants something more permanent than the shirts in her closet, something less poetic than his smell on her sheets, something they´ve both done, built, something that says _theirs_ and not just _hers_ or _his_.

A blank wall.

Four hands.

They have discussed the colours; Hawkeye´s rooms have always been white in the past, even as a child. She can´t deny Roy has brought colour into her life, and grey into her black and white.

A wall to paint their love like the ancient hunters drew the animals they hoped to find, covered the walls of the cave with magic and faith.

They start on opposite ends of the wall, and they walk sideways, each step closer to the other, each smile broader, anxious from a hunger that can´t be qualmed with paint, or keys to each other´s apartments.

Soon they fight, playfully, teasingly, over the same spots, soon Hawkeye shakes her brush in front of him, ruining his clothes (but that´s what they were old for), blue on his t-shirt, blue over the hair on his arms. She smiles, then laughs, Roy catches her wrist -she beats into him, through him, her heart pushing in his chest- and in a swift movement she is under him, blue-stained as well, Roy-stained, skin against skin, laughing louder and deeper, and deeper, deep enough to be a moan, and it is.

 **ii. religion**

He puts her down to the floor, he pulls her down to the floor, butterfly-pins her, saddles her not, he is not a weight, she knows freedom only when she is caged by him; he shapes her with his limbs entwined with hers, he locks her and he is the key.

Hawkeye makes him understand religion; she is his burning faith, his feverish belief and his wild trust; the psalms, his lips over her nipple, his fingertips hot on her stomach, his forehead against her throat, feeling each sound vibrate inside, echoing, her body his cathedral.

He whispers -slip onto my finger like a ring, slip onto my finger and this is my ring, this is my vow, this is what ties me to you, this holy, unwritten, unnoticed union. I would carry you in my arms through the threshold, but I´d rather hold you down with my arms, don´t waste one moment, don´t waste one breath, don´t waste one inch of skin, because yours is the sacred word, my feelings for you are biblical, I know your body like a gospel, it is flesh and truth and life to me.

Roy kneels at her altar, her marbled veins are the steps to the altar, each kiss he draws tasting like communion, and the skin of his lips peels away with the prayer. Hawkeye makes him understand religion, in her Roy understands ishvarites; he discovers a belief that can´t be reduced, that can´t be broken or bent by force, he discovers the feverish passion that can´t be defined, nor defied.

Hawkeye is all that can´t be rationalized.

She is the closest to salvation that he´ll ever know.

She puts her hand around his cock and Roy sinks into her neck, teeth finding softness, fingers into fists around the newspaper -they knock a can of paint, now they can´t tell the floor from the wall, everything upside down, they swirl, they roll over, they sway.

 **iii. poetry**

Hawkeye keeps a seashell by the bedside, sometimes it appears by the lamp in the living room, sometimes it hides in a drawer in the kitchen, it always comes back; a fortune teller gave it to Roy because he was born on a ocean-less country. She also told them that they hadn't been lovers in a former life, that they weren´t soulmates, that they weren´t destined to be together.

"I was happy that she said that," he reminds her, she holds the shell against his ear, the shell gets blue-stained, blue-kissed by her fingertips, his hair, too. "I don't want to owe this love to anything outside this love; I don't want it to be written in the stars, but within us. I don't want to love you because I'm destined to," Roy caresses a path down the inside of her arm, he paints her as she is, he invents art, this is the reason anyone took up a brush and an easel, "I want to love you because I do."

She is his religion.

He is her poetry.

He teaches her rhythm and rhyme, he breathes into her, the consonants biting at the edges of her lips, the vowels lapping at the roof of her mouth.

In him Hawkeye discovers the verse forms-

-iambic, when he kisses her and his lips linger on her mouth so that when he thrusts into her again they brush, the ghost of another kiss.

-trochaic, the thrust comes first, her eyes tightly closed, the room feels like they are underwater, and then he puts his mouth to her forehead, he licks the sweat and he ploughs the wrinkles above her eyebrows.

-anapaestic, he teases her, whispering where her shoulder meets her neck, jut against jut, and Roy drops a word on each nerve´s sensitive end; he twists Hawkeye's blond hair around his finger, he enjoys the freedom of her free-time hair, put down, tidy but untamed, Hawkeye lets him watch it grow, sometimes she thinks it only grows for the times he puts his hand on the back of her neck.

-dactylic, she comes, muffling sounds into his mouth, he holds her head, he feels her tranforming from solid to liquid, he rocks her and the pages underneath them creak, Hawkeye feels her back ink-tatooed, Roy talks calm into her ear, and the ink slowly takes the shape of his words.

His words are not locked into meaning; as an afterglow to her orgasm he comes, quick and soundless, hiding under her chin.

They breath like dying animals ( _you hunted me down; no, no, it was you who found me and now you are wearing me over your shoulders, like fur_ ), their clothes over their heads, around their ankles, hot knees touching each other, skin painfully sensitive, skin sweaty, sticky, smelling of ripe fruit or wilted flowers, smelling of the rotting, living sex.

Roy feels the house's key in the back pocket of his pants.

Hawkeye thinks Roy was right, this kind of blue is really relaxing.

"You've left a spot there," Roy jokes, choking on his own laughter.

Hawkeye elbows him.

That spot will always have a hand of paint less than the rest of the wall. That spot will always remind them that nothing dissapears without a mark, that even loves leaves a stain, that even stories left untold can be traced, word by word, back to the center.

Their uniforms are locked away for the afternoon.


End file.
